New Home, New Father
by toadstoolcouch
Summary: Mozenrath was sold into apprenticeship with Destane at a young age. Very little is known about his past or his real father, so here are a few ficlets about my ideas on that. Warnings for violence and non-con to a minor, dark themes


New Home, New Father

He has been here for nearly a week and still he feels he should expect to go home any minute. His father rarely spent more than a few minutes or a few looks at his expense, and yet his sudden and complete absence is crushing. There wasn't any other male figure to look up to growing up, only palace guards that swatted him away when he tried to see what was going on behind their backs.

He knew he had to get used to this new man, but refuses to call him father. Actually, this man never said that was what he was to be called, it's just that Mozenrath wants to call him father. In his childish heart of hearts he wants to adapt to the new situation and allow this new man to replace the old one in his heart.

Just as he wants to adopt that slimy, hissing eel creature as his new pet, replacing the menagerie of pets at the palace, like the princess' tiger or the caged birds.

But he won't let himself, because he knows his father will come back for him. Maybe not very soon, but he will. His father would not just...abandon him.

Potions

Well into the night, the boy and his master were still busy. The boy, standing naked with his legs apart and hands on top of his head, trying hard to keep the sobs in, the man hovering around, making complete circles around the smaller, shivering body, his own hands behind his back, a whip jumping in anticipation in one hand. Both were tired, one more than the other, but it was clear this would not end any time soon. The full moon spilling its bright white light would soon give way to the sun, and they would still be there.

In that eerie light the marks on Mozenrath's skin looked black against sheer white, and his hair would seem part of the darkness if not for its swift and watery movement with every bite of the lash.

Destane asked again for the ingredients to the cobra venom healing potion, a misnomer because it actually contained no cobra venom at all. It used ground up cobra tail, among other ingredients. Destane expected the full list, how much of each, and in what order. It was that simple. His apprentice should have gotten it by now, but he had chosen sleep over study, apparently, because he was still at a loss for words.

But Destane believed he could drive the words out. He knew that he had gone over this lesson with the boy enough that he should have memorized it out of sheer repetition. It was an important potion to learn; it could heal a ravaged body against any typical elemental based disease. Plus, he was tired of making it himself, not with an apprentice who should be doing that for him.

But he kept missing the last two ingredients, and he would mix up the order every few times he had to repeat the list. As time wore on and the lashes continued, Mozenrath's back began to arch, his hands falling nearly all the way off his head to hang stupidly at the sides of his face, his voice cracked and whiny, his face saturated with tears and snot and dribble.

Once he even petulantly wailed, "I don't know!", as if he thought he could get away with such immature behavior. Destane remembered himself to be far more grown up when he was fourteen. The boy was given a few minutes of solid whipping for such girlish weakness.

Finally, as the first streaks of light pricked his eyes, Destane called it a night. His arm was getting sore. By now Mozenrath's arms were hanging limply by his hips, and his eyes were cloudy and blinded by tears. It looked as though if he were to blow on him, the boy would fall over.

Destane slapped a hand to the boy's throat and gripped hard, while Mozenrath blinked desperately and whimpered. "You will have it by the time I awaken," he snarled, and tossed the boy away like so much garbage.

Destane knew that the boy would slink back to his room and think to rest only for a moment, but then end up sleeping for hours. This has happened before. Destane grinned; he was a light sleeper.

Dinner Party

Destane had another important mage to dinner that night. Mozenrath had never heard of this man, nor did he really care. His familiar seemed impressed, or rather, stressed at making sure his own young master looked sharp and crisp enough to dine with them.

Snaking a freshly cleaned, bright colored sash around the boy's waist, Xerxes realized that he wasn't exactly a boy anymore, and he felt oddly anxious. He switched the bright sash for a duller one, choosing to attract attention to the boy's head with a colorful headdress instead. The deep red jewel should keep the eye at a higher level, he thought.

The whole time Mozenrath seemed bored out of his mind. He'd never cared to look after his looks, but Xerxes couldn't blame him. Who did he have to impress? His work was often menial and dirty, so nice clothes would only get the way and ruined. And besides, he was growing the finest face with the passing time, Xerxes noted, and felt that dread again.

There was a brief moment when Mozenrath, dolled up in a fine, dark blue headdress and a fancy new tunic, gazed at his reflection with something other than complete apathy. In that moment, his eyes flashed, his cheeks pricked with color, his lip fluttered, and his whole body seemed to pause. He looked so much older in that get-up, and even though he did look swamped in such overbearing clothes, Xerxes liked the way he looked. Unfortunately someone else would, too.

But he had to watch his master leave for the dining room, following as close as he dared. He hung back to watch, hiding just out of sight.

After pouring wine for Destane and the guest, and then himself, Mozenrath took his seat by Destane's side. This was the first time he had ever taken a meal beside his master, let alone another person, especially one as apparently important as this one.

For a moment Xerxes felt pride for the boy. True, he sat silently, barely picking at food far richer than what he was used to, while the two older men talked cheerfully with each other. Neither so much as glanced at him, and Xerxes felt a pang of remorse for a moment that all that finery on the boy would have been for waste.

And then the guest began to talk about the palace. Xerxes had heard talk of many palaces, and had even been to a few, but this one was special, if only because the mention of it caused Mozenrath to look up.

"Have you ever met Jafar?" he suddenly said, interrupting the men. Xerxes almost gave himself away with a loud, agonized groan. Mozenrath seemed oblivious to the warning glare of his master when he continued, puffing himself up with pride Xerxes had never seen in him, "He's my father, you know. He used to tell me-"

Finally Destane found his voice, commanding to boy to be quiet, and then politely excused himself to the stunned guest. Xerxes flitted out the way, but was so close to the two he was half petrified of getting caught watching.

"How many times!" Destane bellowed, dragging the boy out into the hall by the hair. "How many times must I tell you?"

He might have looked like a young prince a few minutes ago in that grown up outfit, but now he looked like a wretched scamp once more, with Destane screaming down at him, slapping him hard enough to knock that headdress right off. Each blow was savage and made Xerxes predict exactly how it would bruise. Already he could see blood, but wasn't sure if it was coming from the mouth, the nose, or both.

"How dare you speak that name?" he snarled, while Mozenrath cringed and held his arm over his face. Pitiful protection, for Destane only had to grab it and swing it out of the way for another whack.

Destane seethed a moment while the boy sucked his tears back in, and then pulled him further down the hall. Xerxes had to strain to see, although he wished he had the strength to fly away from this. Destane took hold of a broom leaning against the wall and shook it at the boy, cursing him further. It all sounded like gibberish to Xerxes, but the beating was perfectly clear. Over and over the older man struck the teenager with the broom handle, smashing against his shoulder, his arm, his ribs, his legs, even his neck, anywhere he could get at, while Mozenrath wriggled and tried to shield himself with his arms.

What seemed to Xerxes like hours later, Destane was at last spent. He was panting over the kneeling, blubbering boy, and then lifted him by the collar of his now bloodied tunic. Pinning the boy to the wall, he hissed in a dangerous, low voice, "You have no father."

Mozenrath began to hiccup in between his incessant sobbing, but he managed to calm himself enough to say as expected, "I have no father." He sounded so sad, Xerxes thought he really believed it.

Destane let him go, swatted him across the head, and growled for the boy to back to his room. "I will speak with you later," he grunted. "Make sure you're clean."

Mozenrath whispered a "Yes, Master," and trotted as fast as his injured legs could carry him back to his room, while Xerxes flew swiftly down the hall to meet him there. Throwing himself on his bed, the boy burst into tears, but kept himself quiet, because his master and guest were only just down the hall.

His loyal familiar flew over to him, ready to comfort if he could, but Mozenrath turned and sent the creature across the room with a vicious slap. "Get out of here!" he hissed, barely stopping himself from screaming.

Xerxes tried to argue, but the boy got up from the bed, as if he meant to attack the magical being, so he sped out of the room.

Indeed, his young master was not a boy anymore.


End file.
